Inhale Exhale
by Neenor
Summary: Harry Potter has lost all hope. He has isolated himself for years, but when a blonde slytherin makes a sudden appearance in his life, things begin to change... DRARRY/SLASH
1. Prologue

_**Inhale. Exhale. **_

_**DISCLAIMER:**_

_**I do not own any of the characters in this fanfiction. They are all property of J.K Rowling, I write this for my own entertainment and to numb the fact that I do not have a life. :)**_

_**Warning: This will become Slash/Yaoi, whatever you wish to call it at some point.**_

_**PROLOGUE **_

Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Harry Potter, the Chosen One.

Harry Potter...

Harry Potter.

Harry would sometimes stare into a mirror, and for a moment, his heart would stop beating for a fraction of a second and he would see a glimpse, just a glimpse, of the younger version of himself. The young mans tired, murky green eyes for a second, shine like the brilliant emeralds they used to, and glistened with mischief. Sometimes he thought his tired gaze was similar to the curious face he would pull when he was trying to figure something out.

The days when Harry could call Hogwarts his home ended two years ago. Two years was a rather short time, but to Harry, it was almost like a lifetime. He could remember it all, so clearly, so vividly, but it was like how he remembered his parents. He could still hear the voices of his mother, hear the laugh of his father, but it was so far away, like a dream within a dream.

But, most the time Harry looked in the mirror, he wondered, the thought simply crossed his brain, "God, when did that happen?" When did his life become so meaningless?

Harry had days. Odd days. He had to leave his, small, recluse apartment. To go to the shop. To buy some bread. Or milk. Just something to survive on.

And he felt like there was a demon inside of him. It was like a piece of Voldemort was still inside of him, trying to rip apart his soul. It felt like trying to resist the Imperius curse. Harry was filled with a putrid loathing to every human being.

He was filled with disgust as he watched people smile. Just talk about normal things.

"Oh, I've learnt a new spell."

"My husband has got a promotion at work."

Stupid small talk. Everybody was stupid. Harry felt like he knew something he didn't know, as there was something inside him, a monster that said. "You're nothing. In the grand aspect of things, nothing. Nobody needs you. You're not essential."

It wasn't Harry, who thought these thoughts though. It was this little voice in the corner of his heart, screeching these feelings that were so intense that they seeped into Harry's own mind.

Harry was not a murderer. He had to restrain himself from hurting people, when that voice came up. Even if it meant pinching his own skin till ring shaped purple bruises form, or scratching till he bled. It was an achievement that he could go through a day without hurting somebody.

It was sad. That his life had come to that.

Harry had isolated himself two years.

Yet, the days of anger were not the worst days Harry had, of course. Anger oddly comforted him. It reminded Harry that he was human. Feelings were natural. Normal. Something Harry had longed to be since he was 11 years old.

No, by far, the worst days Harry had was when he woke up with a gaping hole in his heart in his chest, his soul, and his head full of clouds. Harry did not know what it was like to have the soul sucked from you, but he knew a pain similar to it.

It was as if even all the negative feelings had given up on him. And that scared him, because Harry liked being sad in some way. He had grown fond of the internal darkness. It was comforting. It never let him down. It was always there.

But the feeling of emptiness was worse than words could explain. He was no longer a person. Just a soul, merely existing because his organs functioned.

"I am lost." Harry came to conclusion one day. Lost in this emptiness. Lost in the sadness. Lost in the darkness, that swirled within each crevice of his soul, and pierced his heart every time he inhaled breath.

To save yourself from a dark fate, you must remove yourself from dark places. Sometimes, though, you might not remove yourself remove yourself soon enough, and the darkness leaves with you. It visits you not just in your worst moments but also in your best, dimming the light that those occasions have to offer. It visits you, and tells you **this **is where you are from – that no matter how far you run, or how far you reach for release, the darkness, sooner or later will claim you.

**Review and I'll love you. **


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Harry woke up. He sighed. It is said, that every time you sigh, you let a little bit of your happiness escapes.

"That's a stupid saying."" Harry decided. It sounded stupid. It reminded Harry awfully of something his later headmaster, Albus Dumbledore would have said.

He heaved his energy deprived body from the bed. He was always tired. It wasn't a tired like "Oh, I really want to go to sleep," but the sort of tired that he was almost exhausted of breathing. Like inhaling and exhaling breath was just drained his stamina way too quickly. His limbs felt heavy by his sides. But that was all he needed to do. Inhale. Exhale. Then repeat.

He could barely sleep anyway. It was much easier just to lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling for hours. Why was he here? It was like he fulfilled his duty. He defeated the Dark Lord, bought peace to everyone. It made no difference though. Bad things still happened. People still died young. But Harry Potter did what he was meant to do.

His best friends, Ron and Hermione would still visit him occasionally. Once every two weeks. They always seemed rather unhappy to be in his presence. Of course, their lives were perfect. Two kids. Married. Nice house. Nice job. Big family. Why would they want to spend time with a broken man who had lost all hope? When they did visit, the air was filled with an awkward type of tension that they never used to have.

They still came, though. Every 2 weeks.

Most days Harry didn't get out of bed, or get changed, he saw no point in it at all. Nobody was coming to see him – he wasn't going out, so he usually just sat around with no real purpose.

But, today, Harry made his way to the shower and washed. It felt nice, to have the warm water drip down him. He often lost his thoughts in the shower, and was often in there for an hour. He did not have the imagination he had when he was younger, it had died away in him some while ago, but Harry still found himself smiling as he went through all the "what if's" and imagined what his life could've been. He had slowly burnt away like a candle fire and was left in this murky darkness and he didn't like it. It was nice to think of what could have been if he had tried a bit harder, but at the same time it was self-torture.

**Think of something beautiful**

**Think of something free**

**Think of something beautiful**

**And I'll wish that I could be**

He stepped out the shower and wrapped a towel round his waist. He looked at himself in the mirror. You could see it in his eyes that he was unhappy. There was this gleam that had burnt away and his eyes looked like they were filled with dirt infested water. His gaze could pierce through your soul.

Harry picks up a white button up shirt and puts it on, along with some black trousers. They were actually the same trousers he had worn when he attended Hogwarts, but over the years Harry's weight had gone down drastically. He didn't know, or care that his weight was greatly affecting his health. His skin was deathly pale, his fingernails were short, and his long hair would fall out in clumps. He bruised easily – simply bumping into a counter would leave a bruise Hon his waist that would be there for months. He made many scars etched into his skin. His hip bones stuck out alarmingly. Harry couldn't see these things though.

He then heard a knock on the door, and the murmur of two people. Harry sighed. Must be Ron and Hermione. He made his way to the small hallway of his apartment and opened the door.

"Hi Ron. Hi 'Mione. Come in." Harry said in a tired voice. These were the exact same words he said to the couple every time they arrived at his doorstop.

Hermione glanced at Ron with a worried gaze and they both stepped in. Harry led them to the living room.

"Sit down, if you like. Tea, coffee?" He offered. He didn't even have tea or coffee in his house but it was a conversation starter.

"Harry... Please sit down. We need to talk, us three." Hermione said, staring at Harry with... pity? Harry reluctantly sat down.

"Yes?" He said, in a bored tone. He knew what was coming "we're worried about you," "you've lost so much weight" were both sentences he had heard countless times and didn't care for.

"We're worried for you." Hermione said. Harry rolled his eyes. "Harry... Ron and I have booked you an appointment at St. Mungo's."

Harry felt his heart beat increase. "Y-you did **what?!**"

Ron scowled "Hermione! You shouldn't have just blurted it out, Merlin, this is never going to work..." he said, resting his cheek on the back of his palm.

"W-why have you booked me a St Mungo's **appointment?! **An appointment for what? There is nothing wrong with me, at all, I can't believe... How is that even** allowed**, it's not like we're related or anythin-"

"Harry, it's not natural! You never leave your house, you don't talk to anybody, I'm upset, and I'm worried for you! How did you become this way?!"

Harry glared. "You wouldn't understand. Look at you. Two kids, husband nice house, oh **yeah**, it all worked out perfectly for you, didn't it? But oh no, thank you for taking the time out of your perfect lives to come visit me once a fortnight, really, I appreciate it." Harry spat. "Then, you decide 'Can't be bothered with him anymore' and try to cart me off to St. Mungos. Well thanks guys, thanks for the brilliant fucking friendship."

"Harry, we don't know to do! We try to help, you just block us out, and how do you expect our help if you won't let us understand..."

"Because I've given up." Harry announces. A look of horror sweeps over Hermione's face and Ron sits up. "I've given up on life."

"Harry, mate." Ron says. "It's obvious, you've got, well, some type of depression, I mean there must be spells, potions to get rid of it-"

"No, Ron." Harry spat. "You don't understand. And you never will.

The days that Harry had spent alone had made him bitter and human interaction was not something that he was used to. He found himself shouting even at his closest friends. He took a big breath.

"Look. You two. Thanks for trying, but you really are wasting your time. Even if I was given the opportunity to start again, I'd decline, because I have absolutely no motivation to do anything, and I certainly do not want to become a normal functioning member of society. "

"But Harry – You have money, so much of it, why not just try, say – start a business or –"Hermione babbled

Harry laughed. It wasn't a kind laugh. Hermione stopped talking almost instantly. Harry smiled; he was almost amused by the whole situation.

"Money can buy you a bed, but not sleep. It can buy you food, but not an appetite. It can buy you a house, but not a home. It can buy you a medicine, but not health. It can buy you obedience, but not faithfulness. It can buy you sex, but not love. Forget it. Hermione, I always thought you were clever, even you know money can't buy happiness."

"I never wanted you to think it did!" Hermione said in an exasperated tone.

"Then what on earth was the point of even saying that?"

Hermione's eyes filled to brim with tears. Ron attempted to hold her hand, but she swiped it away. "I'm sorry Harry, I shouldn't be the one crying, you're the one in pain, yet I'm crying... I'm sorry..."

Harry felt a pang on his heartstrings but brushed the feelings away. He had to remain bitter. If Ron and Hermione thought a bit of waterworks would get him going to St. Mungo's, they had another thing coming.

"Why do you want me to get better? In fact, who says there is anything wrong with me? Is the guilt too much? Am I ruining your perfect lives, oh yes, is the thought that whilst you two have perfect lives and I'm here, hurting you? Its guilt, isn't it? See, you only think of yourselves. You feel guilty. Well, little did any of you know, I've been ready to die this whole time. I guess I'll just off myself, and then you can both continue doing whatever the hell you do. I wouldn't know as you only visit me every two weeks."

Harry regretted the words almost the second they came out his mouth. There was one thing thinking he wanted to die, but it meant so much more to say it out loud. It was terrifying – and it was even more terrifying to think that he meant it. Ron grabbed Harry's wrists.

"Harry, you're not going to die. You hear me? No, you're not going to die. Listen, it would maybe do you some good to get maybe, some, yano, therapy or-"

Harry smirked. "Thanks for the offer, but I have to decline. I don't really fancy lying down talking about life and my feelings and listing out everything that is wrong."

"So what the bloody hell do you intend to do, Harry?! We're your friends. You're an idiot if you think anything you say will change our minds. We're going to help you – Hermione and I don't care what it takes. You're an idiot if you think we'd give up on you."

Harry sighed. He looked into the pleading eyes of his two friends.

"Harry..." Hermione said, her voice choked. It was obvious she was trying to not burst into tears. "We can't understand if you don't let us... What are you so afraid of? It's like – it's like you're not Harry anymore. You're cold. Distant. Numb." Hermione says, peering into Harry's eyes, as if she is trying to stare into soul, read his thoughts and banish his inner demons. "The heart does things not even the mind can understand."

And as Harry looked into the bloodshot, tear filled eyes of the girl who had been such a loyal and kind friend for so many years, he felt emotions that he had not felt for a long time.

Harry bit his lip, and uttered these words. "I'll go to one appointment. One. Just for you two."

And he saw something in Ron and Hermione's eyes that he had maybe seen in what seemed a life ago. Pure happiness, excitement, relief.

Hope.


	3. Chapter 2

Sunlight streams through the window.

"Ah." Harry thinks. "Here it is. The morning. Killing my dreams, again."

It was the morning of the day that Harry supposedly was meant to go to the so called "appointment" at St. Mungos.

Harry looked up at the ceiling.

"I'm a stupid idiot." He said aloud. The words echoed around the room. It was as if a thousand Harry's were repeating "I'm a stupid idiot".

He didn't even know what kind of an appointment it was. Was it for his health? Harry looked down at his torso. His ribcage and hipbones stuck out alarmingly. "I suppose I'm quite thin." Harry thinks to himself. But then Harry realizes something and groans. He remembers when he shouted at Ron and Hermione. "Little did you know I've been ready to die this whole time?" He mentally kicks himself. What a stupid thing to say. This is what happens when anger overpowers you. They've booked a mental health appointment. Great. If someone found out about this, his face would be plastered on tomorrows "Daily Prophet". Harry could picture it, "The Boy Who Lived, Mentally Scared?" or whatever the people there do. He was way beyond the point of caring though. Any wizard with an IQ above 5 knows that those people would sell their soul just to get their story sold. Harry glanced at the clock besides him. 9am. Ron and Hermione were coming at 11am, with some type of portkey to St. Mungos. So he had two hours.

Two hours was a very long time. Would it be possible to run away in that time?

But what was the point? What would he even be running from, and what we he be running to? It was like everything lacking points and meaning. Harry got dressed and sprayed himself with expensive cologne that Hermione had bought for him a year ago and he never used. It had been sitting in his cupboard festering and collecting dust. Harry smelt of expensive hotels and people who drank white wine every Friday and he didn't like it.

He hated this. He hated moping round, feeling sorry for himself, dressed too casually for the cologne, hoping that his life would take an abrupt was the first thing in two years that had Harry wondering "what will happen today?" Because every day had been just like the last, the only goals were to not die and not kill anybody, and that first goal sort of faded away after a year and a half.

It's not like he had been diagnosed with anything. It was obvious these so called behaviours weren't normal, but as time continued they stopped being behaviours and just become him. The darkness sort of mixed itself within him and became a part of him. Even if he was diagnosed with "depression" or whatever they call being sad all the time, it would mean nothing to him. He didn't know what he was without this darkness. It was his friend, yet his enemy. He had grown oddly attached to it.

"Do you want to get better?" he asked himself out loud. He then smirked. They say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. "Do you want to be happy?" It took Harry a while to think about what to reply. It didn't matter if he didn't reply, he was only talking to himself, but the words that fell from his mouth were; "I don't think I know how."

After an hour and a half of lonely waiting, Ron and Hermione finally arrived. Harry opened the door. He was greeted with warm smiles. Harry frowned. "Do you guys, um, have to come with me? Actually, I have a lot of questions, where do I go, what type of appointment is it, what am I actually meant to d-"  
"Wow, slow down mate." Ron said, smiling at him. "We've got to come with you, because, well, no offence intended, but it's our portkey, and we never know when we will need it, Dad got it from the ministry for me though, so I could always get you one."

"Uh, I don't think so. I've already told you both, I'm only going once." says Harry.

"Ah, yeah. Well, just get there and wait in um, I think it's the D waiting room? Then you'll get called out and just speak to some healer.

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Yeah. Sure. Still no bloody idea why I'm doing this."

Hermione smiled at him. I think it was meant to be comforting, but to Harry looked like a smile full of pity. It was the smile adults gave little children when they knew something that they didn't know, and Harry hated it.

"So, you ready?" Ron says. He holds out a small box and as he opens up the lid the box reveals a normal, rather bland black and white bracelet. "Just touch it. On the count of three, okay? You've gotta say 'St Mungos' too." Ron looked around at Harry. "Okay?"

"Mm. Yeah."

"Alright, good.. One, two, and three..."

"St Mungos!" the three Gryffindor's shouted. Harry, not so much, more of a tired murmur, but the words still came out of his mouth. His vision faded, and once he had regained it, he was in St. Mungos reception. It smelt of medicine and everything was white and made his eyes hurt. The whole building was full of a dull atmosphere. Harry felt sick in his stomach.

"I want to go back." He proclaimed.

"What? No, no you're not. You're going to the doctor, honestly, Harry, it **won't be bad**, I promise..." Hermione said with the same pitiful gaze and smile.

Harry felt an odd surge of emotions he had never felt for Hermione. He was pissed off, she wasn't being the Hermione that he went to school with, and she was being stupid. She was talking to him like a child and it made the situation so much worse than it was to start with. Harry sighed.

"Whatever. Ron, you said it was the D block I've got to go to?"

"Yeah. Then just wait there and I think someone comes out to fetch you. We're not allowed so we're just gonna wait here. Good luck, mate, you'll do fine." He smiled. He hated that. Ron and Hermione had seen Harry do many things, such as slaying dragons, fighting death eaters, even defeating the greatest dark wizard of all time. They all had faith in him then. But now, he was performing something as simple as going to a doctor's appointment, and their faces were filled with worry.

"I must really appear pathetic to them." Harry thinks to himself.

Harry turned his back and went through the gates that lead to the corridors. He wondered round aimlessly for what seemed like hours, through all the different blocks. He saw a blind woman, who he felt no pity for. He had always envied the blind, as all the ugliness of the world was hidden to them. Harry had to catch his breath though, because as he was wandering carelessly round the C block and he saw a man through a window, which could have been no older than he was, lying on a bed with tubes attached to his arms which were a pale shade of grey. Harry saw the same thing being performed on a muggle TV show once. So the person there was in such a hopeless state that they had resorted to muggle techniques. The C block was a block for people with diseases, so obviously the man had some type of illness. Harry couldn't help but feel insanely jealous of the man lying there. There was a huge difference between psychological pain and psychical pain. With psychical pain, there's always a reason, there's always evidence to back up to why it's there. But psychological pain is how you feel as a person; how you feel in your mind. It refers to how much you hurt as a human being. It is mental suffering; mental anguish, mental torment. It is the pain of excessive felt shame, guilt, loneliness, loss, sadness, or even dread of growing old and dying badly. When it's felt, its introspective reality is undeniable.

It's not like Harry thought people in psychical pain had it easy, because he knew they didn't. It's just he would swap with the stranger who was on the brink of death in a heartbeat.

Harry finally arrived at the D block. It was different to the others. It was a plain corridor with too many doors and plastic chairs and stupid posters with even stupider optimistic sayings such as; "There is always light at the end of the tunnel!" or "Life is a gift!" They even had little cartoon illustrations that you would find plastered in a nursery.

This was obviously the part of the hospital for mental people. Fantastic, bloody fantastic, Ron and Hermione bought him to a loony bin. He had known in the back of his head that they had sent him here other his mental health, but seeing all the stupid posters and leaflets really made it sink in.

Harry waited for what seemed like hours, but in reality were a few minutes. Suddenly, he heard a low metallic voice come from the speaker above him.

"Mr. Harry James Potter. Room 57 in D Block is ready for you."

"Ah, fuck..." He says under his breath.

He walked down the corridor. 55, 56... Ah, 57.

He reached his hand out to open the door, but it opened itself, and out stepped a man with almost white blonde hair, cold grey eyes, pale skin, and dressed in a black suit. His face lacked emotion. A voice from inside the room shouted out.

"Ah, Mr Harry Potter, is it? Come in, I've just finished with my other client..."

Harry wasn't listening. The man standing in front of him was Draco Malfoy.

_**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.**_


	4. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

The Slytherin smirks.

"Potter? Fancy seeing you." And with that he averted his cold grey eyes from the murky green and walked down the corridor and left.

Harry stood, momentarily paralyzed.

At first, he was a bit shocked. He thought, at least now they were adults Draco may had matured into a sensible responsible man, but he still shot him a snide look and smirked when he looked at him, just like he did when they attended Hogwarts together. Harry felt a bitter rush of nostalgia when he looked into the endlessly grey eyes of the Slytherin.

But why was Malfoy here? This was the mental health part of the hospital. Why on earth would be..?

Harry had to convince himself that he did not care, and why should he care, this is Malfoy he's thinking about, but he couldn't help but be extremely intrigued as to what Draco had been doing.

"Uh, hello? Are you coming in?" shouts the voice from inside.

"Ah. Yeah." Said Harry, walking into the office.

It's a spacious office looking room, and the man that sat at the other side of the desk looked old and was wearing a St. Mungos uniform.

"Mr. Potter, is it? And this appointment was booked by Ron Weasley and his wife, Mrs Weasley... Yeah, sit down, sit down." The man says, pointing to a leather arm chair.

Harry perched himself on the edge of the seat, dreadfully anticipating what words would come out the man's mouth next.

"Now, Mr Potter, my name is Matthew. I'm a psychologist, and a doctor. Your friends bought you here, ah... Because they are under the influence that you are suffering from an undiagnosed mental disorder. Now, I'm just going to ask you a few questions. If there's anything you don't want to answer, just say, but its best if you do."

Harry ran his hands through his hair. "Oh god, what am I **doing **here.." He thinks.

"First of all, Harry, do you have any psychical illnesses I'm not aware of? Because on this sheet, it says you aren't known to-"

"No, I haven't." said Harry, cutting off the psychiatrist mid-sentence.

"Okay. Well, Harry, how would you describe your normal day? What feelings do you experience? What feelings don't you experience?"  
Harry paused. He had to choose his words carefully.

"I'm tired a lot."

The psychiatrist nodded.

"Okay. Do you psychically do a lot every day? Is there something that you do every day that would tire you out, or is it just for no reason?"

Harry paused.

"No reason."

"Right. Your friend, Hermione Weasley, says in the past few months, you've lost a lot of weight. Have you been dieting, or?"

"No, no I haven't."

"Do you have a loss of appetite, or..?"

Harry shrugged then nodded curtly.

"Right. So, what is your sleeping routine like?"

"Uhm... I'm tired in the day, and I can't sleep at night. I'm always sort of tired; it's just rare that I actually sleep."

The psychiatrist scribbles something down on a piece of parchment. "Hey... Um, Dr. Matthew?" Harry says.

"Hmm? Yes?" He says looking up from the parchment. Harry bites his lip.

"I'm here because my friends say I show symptoms of depression, right? So why are you just trying to skirt round the subject and just ask other questions?"

"Mr. Potter, depression is normally accompanied by a sleep disorder, and as you avoided the first que-"

"Okay, fine, it felt to me as though you were trying to do something else... May I ask a question?"

"Yes."

"What was Draco Malfoy in here for?" Harry said the words too quick, so it sort of came out like "WawasDracoMalfoyerefo?" But the psychiatrist seemed to have understood. He turned his face and burrowed his brow in a quizzical expression.

"I am not permitted to say. If you want to know, ask Mr. Malfoy. You must already be aquatinted if you know his first name."

Harry's stays silent. Fuck. Why did I say that? Harry tells himself. It's Malfoy... **Malfoy.** He wasn't scolding himself over the fact he was curious about the Slytherin, who wouldn't be – Malfoy was the last person you'd expect to see in a place like this, but mixed with curious was also a pang of empathy and care for the blond. And Harry had no idea where it had come from.

Harry then finally shrugged.

"Just somebody I knew at school."

"Right. So, straight to it. Harry, again, how is your mood most the day?"  
Harry sucked in his breath and then replied, his face showing no expression.

"Empty and plain."

"Okay, but what emotions do you feel? Sadness, anger?"

Harry nodded curtly.

"More sadness than anger."

"Right. Do you get mood swings? Or is everyday sad? Do you ever feel happy?"

Harry shook his head. Something inside of him felt weak and vulnerable. He felt like he could spill his heart to this man, although the man meant nothing to him. He sat with slanted posture looking almost bored at the whole situation, staring at Harry how people stare at paintings, searching for brilliance. But to him Harry was just another man who had fallen into some depression. He didn't, nor did he want to understand him. This was his job. It was what he was paid to do.

"Now, Mr Potter, have you ever had suicidal thoughts?"

Harry nodded.

"Yeah, well, sometimes."

"And do you, perhaps, have a plan? Do you know how you could go through with self-murder?" the tone of his voice had changed. It hovered uncertainly, as if in asking that question he had taken a risk. Harry had no idea why he let the following words leave his mouth.

"Yes. It'd be very easy. I mean, for starters, there's the killing curse." Harry said. "But it would be obvious it was me who did it. And I would be remembered as 'The Boy Who Lived, Who Killed Himself.'"

The psychiatrist nodded.

"Mr Potter, have you tried speaking to anybody before about these thoughts, plans?"

Harry shook his head.

"No, of course not. My parents both died for me. They wouldn't understand. I'd just get the whole, 'your parents died for you, and yet you feel depressed' song and dance. Surely you could have figured that out for yourself."

Doctor Mathews did not look impressed. Harry held quite the reputation for being a well-mannered pleasant man.

"Right. Right then, Mr Potter. Listen to what I'm going to say, and listen closely. Do not react violently and do not shout."

Harry nodded, his heart thumping in his chest.

"You are going to be taken into a mental health ward and you are going to stay there. You are going to be kept there till it is suitable for you to leave. Due to what you have just told me, I can conclude that you are a danger to yourself and others."

Harry felt suddenly very sick.

"W-what?" he stuttered. The word came out dry and raspy. "What?"

The doctor looked up.

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"B-but.. How can you come to conclusions like that?! This sort of stuff happens to people who have had a mental disorder for a long time! You can't-"

"Ah, but you have. There is an enchantment in this room that scans patients and their brains, and finding out if they are suffering from any illnesses. It then sends the data to me." Dr Matthews waves a piece of parchment in the air. "It confirms here, that you're suffering from major depressive disorder, and you're at risk at developing either schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder. It also detected that you are prone to suicidal tendencies."

Somebody might as well smacked Harry in the face. He made no effort to hide the shock, disgust, and even fear on his face. He felt the hairs along his neck stand up.

"Then why the fuck did you bother asking me all those questions?"

"To see how you deal with things. The enchantment detects illnesses and strong emotions. It does not clarify your personality, and I felt it better than to find out personally than to judge on rumours." Dr Matthews looked thoroughly bored at the whole situation, like he had repeated it to multiple people many times over.

"No." Harry folded his arms across his chest defensively. "No. This must be illegal. You can't lock me up like some sort of caged animal. It's illegal. Look – I came here because my friends were worried about me. Nobody, nobody said there was an enchantment that detects.. Look, this.. You can't do this!" Harry's voice had a hint of desperateness in it. He wasn't quite sure himself why he didn't want to go to the "mental health ward" because he couldn't really pinpoint a reason why. It just… it just wasn't **normal**. He had defeated a bloody Dark Lord, for Merlin's sake. "You can't do this!" Harry shouts. It was a simple thing to say, but it was the only thing he had left.

"I have come to the conclusion that you need help. You are a danger to yourself and others. I have evidence to suggest that. So yes, yes I can."

Harry closed his eyes, and cursed himself mentally.

Fuck. **FUCK.**

"But depression? That's a muggle illness! Surely – surely wizards can't.."

Dr Matthews looked faintly amused.

"Muggle, wizard, squib? Why should it matter? We're all human."

**'

Draco sits on the mahogany chair inside the coffee shop with excellent posture. He sips black coffee. No milk, no sugar. The taste is too bitter, and he has to force himself not to grimace as he swallows the steaming hot brown liquid. It does not appeal to him at all. But Draco doesn't drink it with milk, or sugar, because this is what sophisticated people do. Sit in cafes, drink black coffee, and read the prophet. Not people who went to see psychiatrists, contemplating stuff that no normal person should. He had been disgusted when he found out he was diagnosed with depression. Malfoy's didn't get depression. It was stupid. Malfoys sucked the pain up, the dealt with it. The words written upon the parchment that the doctor had given him were proof that he was weak.

Draco twiddled the metal spoon around the bottom of the cup. Muggle drink. Since the war had ended though, a bunch of weird things happened, and I guess that serving muggle drinks in wizard cafés was one of them.

If his Father had seen him drinking muggle drinks he would be disgusted. Even more so if he found out that his only son had an illness, **depression**. It wasn't even a rare illness. It was common, it was stupid. "Muggles got depression. Malfoys didn't." Draco would repeat in his head every day.

His father and mother both were left to rot in Azkaban. And Draco didn't want to carry out all these stupid traditions, Malfoy traditions, which were almost as stupid as the fact he had depression, but he knew it was what his father would have wanted.

Lucius Malfoy had hurt Draco. Not psychically, but mentally. Draco was a cold, sad and bitter man and it was his father's fault. If it was not for him Draco wouldn't have had the dark mark imprinted into his wrists. It stood out awfully. Draco had unusually pale skin, and the deep seeping black emphasized how pale he really was. He still had white, pale semi-transparent scars etched upon his chest, which Potter had given him in their sixth year. If his Father hadn't had made Voldemort give him that stupid task...

Potter. He saw him at the psychiatrist today. Why was he there?

Draco felt a pang of regret when he realized that all he did was smirk at the black haired Gryffindor and then leave. Harry did save his life, twice. But he almost killed Draco, and Draco's mother saved him, so Draco used those facts as an excuse not to feel sorry for Harry. Draco was bitter –and wouldn't forgive Harry for rejecting his hand on the first day of school. Yes, his father had told him before he boarded the train, 'Try making friends with Potter.'. But Draco had spoken to Harry in the robe shop, before Draco had any idea that it was the bloody "Boy Who Lived" in front of his eyes, and before Harry had met the stupid Weasley and the mudblood. Draco was mesmerised and fascinated with the boy that stood in front of him. He wore a shirt that was clearly too big for him and seemed confused as to where he was. Draco felt like he could stare into the beautiful emerald eyes which held a slightly puzzled gaze forever, and was desperate to impress the boy. Bragged of his wealth, how he was sure he would be placed in Slytherin, because that's how he had been raised. Throughout his whole life, Draco had been taught, 'as long as you have money, you can have whatever you please'. Yet it was the stinking poor Weasley's that had gained the trust and love of Harry, and it was the Girl Weasel who Harry went off snogging in the castle in sixth year. It wasn't fair and Draco felt a loathing towards his Father for making his 11 year old self think that he could win the friendship of Harry Potter simply by being a Malfoy.

Was that what love felt like? It was possible. Draco didn't, nor had any desire to know. It was a universally asked question; "Do you believe in love?" Of course Draco believed in love. It was just an emotion. It's like asking if you believed in hate, of course he did, he had no reason not to. It was a feeling, a horrible feeling that left a gaping hole in your chest that needs to be filled in, it makes you insecure and worst of all, it makes you vulnerable.

But Draco had already accepted the fate that rest of his days would be spent alone, and he would simply just be **there**, not required or needed by everyone, but just there for the sake of being there.

Inhale. Exhale. Then repeat, as many times as required. Then die. That's all there is to life. Breathe and work so hard to survive, only to eventually die.

Draco sighed, and tilted his head back, so that his blond hair fell out of his face, and wondered what his life would be like now if the stupid Boy Who Lived had shook his hand on that day so many years ago.

**_Reviews are extremely appreciated. :)_**


	5. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I never have, and never will claim to own it.

AUTHOR NOTE: Just like to say a big thank you to everybody who has taken the time out of their days to read my little story. I have been in Spain for the past month, and I have extremely important exams coming up, so I will not update as often but when I do, the chapters will be considerately longer. (5,000+ words).

Thank you for all the reviews.

_**Chapter Four**_

Lying with his gaze settled on the pitch black that surrounded his body, he waited for his body to finally give in and sleep.

His legs, arms, wrists, head, hands, all of him is tired, aching, silently praying for rest, but his mind does not allow such things, and the clock that sits in his room laughs in his face and the minutes slowly drag on.

The humid air wraps round him like a cloak. His breathing is odd and unsynchronized. The big room smells of silk and nothing but silk. It is far too neat, and it looks like nobody has ever lived in it. Malfoy Manor was always far too big for Draco's liking, and now that he lives on his own, the massive rooms and the deafening silence intimidates him even more than it originally did.

His skin is smooth and pale. It is mixed with a tone of grey, like his skin may have once had a color other than white, like maybe his legs would go pink in the sun, or maybe his cheeks may have once flushed red. But even his skin itself has a distinctive tired look, as if the skin itself is deprived of sleep and rest.

His eyes were always grey, but sometimes, if he was in a bright room, they would shine with a tint of electric blue, but now, no matter what the lighting, or what he was doing, the colour had settled in a dull endless grey. Staring into them was like staring into a dark cave, there was no end, just darkness.

Semi-transparent scars were etched upon his torso. They were long and ragged, and were a mark of that encounter with Potter in sixth year.

His palms had deep, cracked lines etched upon, stretching from corner to corner. They were deep – appearing like craters against the contrast of his pale, soft skin. His fingers, long and elegant, but had scars upon them, as if he had spent far too many nights trying to grab the future by the seams with them.

Since the war, both his parents had been sentenced to Azkaban; so he had just gone back to Malfoy Manor. He went out with his school friends, Pansy, Blaise, the general Slytherin crowd, seeing no need to get a job. Upon his remaining family being sentenced to Azkaban, he inherited the entire Malfoy fortune, seeing as there wasn't anybody else to leave it to. He had enough money to last him for lifetimes, and if it ever were to run low, he could simply sell some of the ridiculously expensive furniture in the manor. There were far too many silk hand stitched Persian rugs for Draco's liking.

He was actually extremely lucky to have a house at all. But at the court hearing of his mother and father, Draco was just 18, barely an adult, and somebody of high power must have taken pity on him and had chosen not to take the manor and fortune away.

He had developed insomnia, which, according to his doctor was due to the fact that he suffered from depression. It didn't mean anything, he could just use a Dreamless Sleep every night, but sometimes he would simply forget, or run out, and end up having one of the nights like he is having now. Lying awake, and daydreaming. It was an awful feeling, feeling so tired but not being able to sleep.

He ran his cold, pale fingers down his chest, tracing the scars that had sunken into his skin. The feel of them was different to the rest of his skin. His skin was usually flawlessly smooth, but the scar on his chest that Draco had grew oddly fond of over the years, was a constant reminder that he was indeed human, and not the heartless death eater many people thought he was. That and the awful Dark Mark which was still branded into his wrist. He had tried removing it without success. However, it was no longer black, but more of a shade of dark grey. None the less, it was still there, it was a reminder of how he spent his teenage years.

He liked the feel of the scars on his chest, though. They felt odd, almost like smooth plastic, they ran from the top of his collarbone all the way down to his hipbones. He couldn't help but remember Harry Potter every time he did this though.

He couldn't help but feel extremely curious as to why Potter was there, though. He had always seemed rather happy, despite what conditions he was in, or if not happy, stupidly courageous, and never giving up hope. Stupid Gryffindor.

But it was true. Defeated a Dark Lord, and he seemed more than fine when he was giving his wand back to him. What on earth could have gotten him to the state where he actually needed to go to a psychiatrist? That was only in… Well, the worst type of scenarios.

Draco had his next appointment tomorrow. He had no idea why Doctor Matthews was now calling him for daily counseling, he has never needed daily anything, apart from oxygen, but he can only assume this means his condition is worsening. Draco finds that he does not particularly care, or want to know. He still has no idea why he bothers going to those stupid appointments. As if that stupid Doctor had the nerve to offer him muggle medicine.

He couldn't help but hoping that he would bump into Potter again, though. For the past two years, he had been a cold human being, lounging in solitude, not caring about anything, and just one glimpse of the famous Harry Potter and he had Draco acting like the jealous fourteen year old schoolboy he once was.

But the feelings, if you could even have, that Draco once had for Harry had slowly burnt and faded away as the years had dragged on. He couldn't help it, though. He did want to see Harry again.

He mentally cursed himself.

That Harry fucking Potter.

Harry woke up from a dreamless sleep. He was in a strange room, which smelt far too clean to be welcoming, and everything was so painfully white. As the white seeped into his vision, it was as if it was stabbing his eyes. He groaned and buried his head in a pillow. The room was quiet, but there was a large window which sunlight was streaming in from. The dazzling sunlight was getting on his last nerve.

He suddenly sat up. Where was he? Why was he…? Was this a hospital bed? Had he hurt himself? He couldn't feel any physical pain.

And then, Harry it hit him.

He had been tricked by his two best friends, tricked by a doctor, spilt his heart to a doctor, only to find out he had depression and then anything after that just seemed foggy. Oh, and he had bumped into Draco Malfoy.

What a bloody awful day. What spell did Doctor Matthews cast on him? Did he use a potion?

Harry was beginning to realize that he did not like Doctor Matthews. He did not have anything personal against the man, but the fact that he was called doctor and not healer unnerved him. In the wizarding world, somebody who makes people better is called a healer. Period. Was it different for mental health, so that they had to have an entire different name?

That makes sense. Sort of. The world would be crazy if mental health and psychical health was treated the same. Harry almost chuckled at the thought of somebody shouting at a cursed person to just "snap out of it." Yeah, I guess it did make sense that they had different names.

He still had no idea where he was though. Well – he was obviously in St. Mungos, but surely attacking someone and putting them to sleep for hours at a time breaks some wizarding laws? But as soon as it really sunk in where he was, and what he had done, Harry felt extremely sick, and although he would never admit it, he was scared. So much for Gryffindor bravery.

But he didn't want to be here. In an odd way, he had grown strangely fond of the darkness inside of him; he had grown equally attached to the sensation of being lonely. But it was his fault. The darkness was standing outside of his door, and he welcomed it in. He felt it so deeply and so permantley, and he had already accepted that the rest of his life would be this way. He supposed after defeating a dark lord some stuff stays with you that no amount of doctors of healers could get rid of. Over the two years self-pity had become his oxygen.

What type of people would be here? How long was he going to have to wait until he got out?

Harry sighed, and pulled himself out of the warm and comfortable bed. The cold marble floor was freezing and he flinched in surprise as it made contact with his feet. He walked to the other side of the room and opened the door. There was a clean corridor outside. It had a sign on the wall saying "Mental Health Ward" so he supposed that was exactly what it was. A mental health ward. The idea suddenly sprung to mind that it would be simple enough to walk out, but he noticed locks on the doors at the end of the corridor, and he could not feel his wand anywhere in his pocket. He had been caged unwillingly and they had taken his wand, like he was a vicious criminal, or some piece of scum. Harry had always believed that ill people where meant to be treated with respect. Whenever he fell ill he was always treated very nicely.

He guessed it was different with mental health. Again. Everything was different.

He closed the door and sunk himself against it, and held his head in his hands.

He was really depressed, wasn't he? To the point that he had been practically imprisoned. It still didn't seem too real, and half of him was still grasping to the hope that it was just some really fucked up dream. As a child, Harry did not know personally, but he understood the definition of being depressed. He had always thought it was easy as taking a special potion for a while, or that it was even easy enough to snap out of it. But now, ten years later, Harry was so depressed that he did not care. He felt like he had lost his meaning, his worth. Worthless. Why did it matter if he felt better or not? He was worthless.

Somebody on the other side of the door was trying to open it. Harry felt his body being shoved into the wall by the door.

"Oh, Merlin, sorry! Sorry sorry sorry!" said a high shrill voice. A doctor, healer, Harry had no idea, was leaning down other him, touching his arm. "Are you okay? You hurt? I'm sorry, I had no idea you were against the door!"

Harry felt soft fingers close around the top of his arm and pull him up. They belonged to a girl who, judging by her uniform was an assistant of a doctor/healer, or maybe she was just a nurse. She had olive skin and didn't look much older than Harry, and her shockingly blonde hair was tied back in a tight bun. It reminded Harry of a certain Slytherin.

"Ah, yes, I'm fine. Sorry." Harry said, straightening his shirt. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but where am I?"

The nurse looked at Harry with kind brown eyes.

"You're in the mental health ward. Of course you would be confused – no wonder… I really have never approved of the method they use on the method to diagnose… it really is quite awful… it's basically tricking…" the nurse babbled on for ages about stuff Harry neither knew nor cared about. She was now speaking about something about Dr. Matthews who soon would be coming to visit him.

"When am I going to be released?" Harry blurted out.

"Um, well, you get released as soon as your doctor thinks you've improved a lot or something… as soon as you're no longer going to harm to yourself or others… It usually takes around a month. Or two. Well, that's the average. But it really depends on the severity of the illness you have been diagnosed with. Or something. I'm not actually too sure, you'll have to ask one of the other-" and then Harry lost interest in what she had to say.

The nurse was beginning to irritate Harry. She seemed so bubbly it was annoying, and she didn't actually have a clue what she was doing. Her babbling no longer appeared as words to him, but just annoying sounds. He did however, make out an "I think so" every five words. He had practically been imprisoned for god's sake. He had a right to have somebody who knew what was going on to explain the situation to him at the very least.

"Um, okay." Harry said, finally tuning back in. "Well, why did you come down here in the first place?" he asked. He focused his eyes on the badge pinned onto her shirt. It had a picture of her waving over again repteadely and next to it said 'Jessica BcMounger.'

"Oh, just to warn you that Dr. Matthews is coming down to visit you and talk about treatment and stuff. That was all I meant to do, really, but you started asking questions and… Sorry, I know it's not your fault. I'm only training to be a doctor, see. I'm a bit new to this all. Anyway, must be off. Hope you're okay, uh..." she craned to get a proper view of Harry. Her eyes shone with disbelief. "Oh my god, it's Harry Potter. Why on earth would you- Ah, sorry! I mean, get well soon Harry!" the nurse waved at him then walked straight into the door. She turned a furious shade of red and giggled in one of those annoying high pitched girl laughs, then opened the door and dashed out. The fact that Harry did not have a wand came crashing back down on him. He opened the door and stuck his head out.

"My wand! Give me my wand!" he bellowed. The corridor was empty apart from what looked like a family sitting on a sofa nearby. They looked as if they were here to visit somebody. After giving Harry a very odd look, Harry closed the door and he slumped to the bed and let his body crumple on top of it.

Draco was walking round his house in his silk pyjamas.

"Hinky!" he bellowed. A snap and an old house elf appeared in front of him, wearing only a dirty ragged suitcase.

"Yes, Master Malfoy, sir!" she squeaks, bowing to the floor. Draco wrinkled his nose. It had never occurred to him why 'rich people' had house elves as servants. They certainly weren't beautiful, Hinky looked extremely out of place compared to the elegant furniture that Malfoy Manor was full of. Draco had always thought they would have… I don't know something a bit more majestic. But house elves could apparate, were loyal and did whatever you told them. Even if Hinky did disobey him, or do something wrong, Draco, unlike his Father, would never consider hitting her.

"Could you cook me some breakfast? Toast or something?" Draco said.

"Yes, of course Master Malfoy, sir! What is Master Malfoy wanting on his toast? Or does Master Malfoy want something else? Hinky can cook eggs, bacon, fru-"

"No, no, it's fine. Just toast, white toast, with jam." Draco said.

"Yes, Master Malfoy sir! If Master Malfoy is needing anything else, just ask Hinky!" then there was a small pop and she was gone.

Draco walked round the house absently, looking for something to wear. He ran fingers through his blonde, almost white, hair. It flopped over his forehead and fell into his eyes. He needed a haircut. It still looked elegant, of course, everything about Draco was elegant. Even the fact that he was lanky was somewhat elegant; at least, he made it look so. Draco walked into his room, and opened his huge walk in wardrobe.

He had far too many clothes to be considered healthy. The vast majority of them were from places such as Italy, where everything was silk, cashmere, leather, suede, or some other expensive material. He took out a longed sleeve button up navy top, and a pair of charcoal grey silk trousers. He slipped them on, and dumped his pyjamas in a pile by his by his bed. Hinky would undoubtedly take care of those. He stared at himself in the mirror of his dresser. His eyes, which once were such a light, milky shade of grey, were almost black, now. They had a vacant and tired expression. His skin was flawlessly smooth and pale. He traces his fingers across his perfectly defined jawbone. He then sighed and apparated to his dining room. He could have walked, but Malfoy Manor was so big, it was too much effort to walk through countless corridors that were far too long and empty to do something as simple as go to the kitchen. Draco wouldn't tell anybody, but he did not like Malfoy Manor. It was far too big, far too empty, and bought back far too many memories that were responsible for his worst nightmares. He almost shuddered to remember his sixth year summer holidays barely being able to breathe properly because Voldemort was living in his house. It really was a huge house, just like one of those manors that people pay to go round and visit, along with the beautiful gardens. The Malfoy gardens were another thing entirely. A gardener came and tended to all the beautiful flowers and tree's every three days, the grass was always cut and a vivid shade of emerald green, even in the winter. Everything was orderly and beautiful, and the looming trees cast great shadows which Draco would lie under in the summer.

Upon the dining room table, which had enough space for at least twenty people, was a porcelain plate with two triangle slices of toast with strawberry red jam spread across. Hinky apparated into the room with a large pop.

"If Master Malfoy is needing anymore food, please ask Hinky, Master Malfoy!" she announced, before apparating away again. Draco, not acknowledging Hinky's brief visit, sat down on one of the expensive hand carved chairs, and reached out for the toast and chewed absently. He was rather ashamed of the fact that he still had jam on toast every morning, just like he did when he was eleven. At home he dropped the 'I'm a sophisticated rich man' act, anyway. He would also add three heaped tablespoons of sugar to his tea, which is some people's opinion made it unbearably sweet, but not Draco's. After finishing both jammy triangles of toast, he checked his watch.

9:38Am. He really had to stop sleeping in, his appointment was in seven minutes. Good thing he could apparate flawlessly. He pushed the plate back and let his thoughts wonder, and found himself hoping that he would see Harry.

Stop that. He told himself. That was really the last thing he needed. It was bad enough he had to go and get therapy, anyway. It had never occurred to Draco that he would have ever had had depression. Luckily, it was nothing too serious. He had dysomnia which was a moderate depression, which was not as bad as severe depression. He still had to take stupid muggle medicine and have therapy though.

He then apparated to St. Mungos, and once he had arrived his walked over to the check in desk. He was greeted by the smiley nurse named Jessica there who had grown accustomed to Draco over the six months he had been regularly visiting. She was one of those really annoying giggly girls, who wore horrible bright pink lip gloss and wore so much cheap perfume it was suffocating just to be in her presence.

"Hiya, Draco!" she said, beaming at him.

Draco scowled. He hated that, how she called him Draco, like they were friends, or something.

"I'm here to check in. Is Doctor Matthews ready?" he said, not greeting Jessica back.  
"Hm, yeah, he's just finishing off discussing something with a patient… Oi, Draco, did you know Harry Potter has been admitted to the mental health ward? 'Parrently he's got major depression!" she says in her over the top annoyingly girly voice. "I walked in on him in his room, and he was just, like, sitting against the door! He must be so silly! Nobody does that!"

Draco felt the hairs of the back of his neck stand up.

Ah. That would be why he saw him yesterday.

Draco almost hated himself for this, but he felt a pang of empathy for Harry. What had gone so wrong, that he had actually been admitted to the ward…? Locked up like an animal?

For fucks sake! STOP! He silently screamed to himself. This was the last thing he needed. Draco was convinced that half the reason he had even got depression because of the pain of seeing his parents lose their minds in Azkaban. If it was anybody else... Well, it'd be awful to view, but it wouldn't be his business. The reason it hurt so much was because he cared for his parents. And that is what you get when you care about people, you get hurt. That's why he had acted like a heartless bastard the majority of his life, to save his future self a hell of a lot of trouble, yet here he was, worrying about Harry bloody Potter.

And he hated to admit it, but he didn't want Potter to be depressed. He was Harry Potter. He was the idiot that chose the Weasel and Mudblood over Draco. He was the most Gryffindor-ish person Draco had ever met. He never gave up hope. He was annoying optimistic. What had happened?

Whatever. Draco told himself firmly. Stop thinking about it.

"Hm? Is that really the sort of information you ought to be spreading?" He says. Jessica giggles furiously and bats her eyelashes at Draco, much to his horror. Oh, god. Did she think he was trying to flirt?

"Well, they're always exceptions. You being one of them, Draco. Say, would you like to go to dinner sometime?"

Draco was horrified, but at the same time, he found the situation slightly hysterical. God, this girl was really stupid.

"I'm, uh, no. Look, I'm going to go now. Tell Doctor Matthews I'm here for my appointment. Goodbye. Do not ask me out for dinner with you again." He said, and then walked as quickly as his legs would carry him down the corridor. That must have been the seventh time that stupid girl had asked him "for dinner" and each of his responses had been the same. He was going to have to tell her that he was gay, sometime or another. He smirked at the idea of her response.

And then Draco found his mind drifting back to yesterday, to the tired young man whose electric green eyes had dulled into a dark murky brown, the colour of algae, how when he stared into the green, he felt like he, himself, had stopped, but the world kept turning, the birds still sang, the tree's still grew, but the only thing connecting him were those eyes, whilst the world faded away from Draco. God, after two years, they still managed to do that.

And Draco got scared, so he said something stupid and witty that his teenage self would have done, smirked, and then walked away.

Idiot. Draco thought to himself.

I'm such an idiot.

_**Reviews are loved!**_


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